


The One with Coulson Patching Up Skye

by RowboatCop



Series: 3 Times Coulson Didn't Visit Skye at The Retreat (and 1 Time He Did) [4]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Canon Disabled Character, Coulson patching Skye up, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Skoulson Sex Cabin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 18:38:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4148595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowboatCop/pseuds/RowboatCop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coulson meets Skye at The Retreat after her mission the goes sideways. Featuring feels and porn and first aid. (Several months Post Season 2)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One with Coulson Patching Up Skye

“Hi,” he greets her with a smile when she opens the front door.

He’s so relieved to see her he could fall over.

She’s still wearing her tactical gear, a wall of black except for her pained face and her hands and feet — clearly she’s only just had enough time to take off her gloves and boots.

“Hi.”

“Are you okay?” He’s been in a state of panic the whole way here, pushing the top possible speed to get to her.

She nods, once, too taciturn for his taste.

“Did you come alone?”

She looks outside to where Lola is parked behind the SUV she was driving.

“Yes.” He looks back at Lola, too.

Mack has helped him rework her, to make her easier to drive with one hand. Even without the mods, there wasn’t that much he really needed two hands for — the steering rig is more for safety. And thanks to Lola’s flight, he was able to get here just after Skye did.

“Yes.”

“I thought you were going to bring backup?”

“I made a different call.”

She nods once, accepting it even though he can tell she doesn’t really agree.

“I don’t know if —”

“You lost them,” he reassures her. Two young men, all muscle and no finesse, had shown up at the site of her op, almost blown the whole thing, and set half the police in Oregon after her. “We have reason to believe they’re connected to Ward.”

It makes her frown.

“Did he get the briefcase?”

“No. And we were able to tag the buyer.”

“So it’s not totally wrecked.”

“No.” He smiles softly as she sort of sags against the door — finally relaxing a bit, finally slowing down — and he steps inside, laying his hand on her arm and drawing her further in with him so he can shut the door.

It’s not until he’s close enough to touch her that he notices the tear in her jumpsuit and the blood soaking the fabric on her right side, just below her ribs.

“Skye,” he panics, reaching for her. “You’ve been shot.”

“It’s just a graze,” she assures him, but Coulson’s hand starts shaking as he herds her back through the bedroom and into the bathroom. “Coulson —”

“Skye, please.”

Panic sets in, this flood of memory at the last time Skye had been shot, and he loses any capacity for rational thought — for realizing that if Skye is standing here and talking to him, she’s probably going to be fine. And it’s funny how at one time she can be Skye, the competent SHIELD agent and gifted individual, and Skye, the young woman who almost died because she was so ready to jump into a dangerous situation.

It’s not funny how he can look at her and see her the way she looked when he found her — covered in blood, white as a sheet.

Something in his face convinces her to take this seriously, and she follows him willingly into the bathroom.

He fumbles at the leather piece around her shoulders, so she brushes his hand away and does it herself as he tugs down the zipper on her top. It takes him a few tries to get it down and then she shrugs it off, revealing a black camisole worn over the thick, visible straps of a sports bra.

Carefully, he pulls the camisole away from her skin, wincing in sympathy when doing so tugs on her wound, where it’s stuck with blood. She raises her arms obediently, allowing him to lift the torn, bloody garment over her head and baring her stomach.

Looking at her stomach doesn’t help much with drawing a definitive line between the Skye who is mostly _fine_ and the one who he found on the floor of Ian Quinn’s villa. He’s never seen the scars on her belly before, and it’s horrific to see them now, covered in blood from another gunshot wound that could have killed her.

“Hey,” Skye grips his right arm, and he looks back up at her face. “I’m fine.”

Coulson nods once and manages to pull himself together a bit, to be a competent professional, to treat her like he’d treat any SHIELD agent. A quick search in the medicine cabinet nets him disinfectant and gauze, and he also reaches for a washcloth and he snaps on the hot water, preparing to clean her off.

He’s past the need for the sling, now — has just been pinning his sleeve and putting off any thoughts about whether he wants a prosthetic (or really any questions about the long term). Still, even after months and months to get used to it, he’s wary of using the residual limb around people, and certainly of touching anyone.

Such thoughts don’t even occur to him as he steadies her with his left arm so he can press the cloth against her side as she leans back against the countertop.

“I’m going to get you cleaned up first,” he tells her as he wipes away blood. It’s an immediate relief to see that it’s not as bad as he feared, but Skye winces in pain just as he’s finally starting to calm.

“I told you I was fine,” she tells him, gritting her teeth through obvious pain when he presses near the wound.

“The adrenaline’s worn off, huh?”  

“Yes,” she admits, as though she’s giving up something in doing so. Her shoulders are tense and she looks down at the ground, like looking at him will hurt her.

“It’ll be easier if you relax.” He tries to be light, to be nice and nonthreatening and he wonders if it’s his arm, is suddenly self conscious of the way it’s pressed to her.

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one with your shirt off.”

It makes him freeze with his hand on her side, hot water dripping down and soaking the top of her pants. He hadn’t been aware of his eyes wandering in a way that would make her uncomfortable — of course, he’s been guilty of letting his eyes wander plenty, so it’s not hard to believe.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to —”

“Coulson,” she sighs his name, not quite annoyed. “Just hurry so I can get dressed, okay?”

He nods once and wipes more blood off of her skin until he has a clear view of the wound. As she promised, it’s a shallow gash in her skin that will probably bruise painfully, but doesn’t pose much real danger.

Still, he wipes over it with antibiotic cream and then Skye helps to apply a bandage.

“Good as new,” he promises, stepping back and carefully keeping his eyes on hers before he turns away. “Let me see if there are some spare clothes in the bedroom.”

“Coulson,” she calls him back. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, you know I’d never want —”

“You didn’t. It’s fine. I know you don’t even think of me that way, and it’s just stupid, okay?”

She boosts herself up onto the countertop as she talks, as though settling in for the long term.

He swallows and forces a nod, but a knot forms in his stomach. It feels so dishonest, like he’s getting away with something, but he can’t stop his eyes from wandering again down the exposed skin of her belly.

She’s so gorgeous. And the truth of it is that she is _Skye_ and he’d probably find her gorgeous no matter what, but she’s _so_ beautiful it hurts sometimes, like when she’s half naked and reclining back on the bathroom counter.

“You’ve never seen them before, have you?”

Her scars. She thinks he’s looking at her scars.

“No. I hadn’t.”

“They’re kind of ugly, huh?”

She rests her hand over the spots — rough little circles on her otherwise smooth skin, lighter scar tissue marking them off.

“No,” he answers, completely honest. “Not ugly. Just part of you.”

“Come on, I saw that they bothered you.”

And he figures maybe that's why she really got weird about having her shirt off.

“Not the scars, Skye. The memory of the last time I had your blood on my hands.”

It makes her freeze, and she swallows.

“We never talked about that,” she points out, and no they hadn’t because their whole world had fallen apart shortly afterwards, they’d been on the run almost immediately. “You were the one that found me, weren’t you?”

He nods, once, and a long silence falls between them, heavy with his memory of holding her bleeding, broken body.

“You weren’t breathing and I couldn’t find a pulse,” he tells her. “Your shirt was so soaked with blood, I couldn’t tell where you’d been shot, except that you had coughed up blood so your lips were...”

He can hear his own voice lose any sort of color, hear his own despair as he remembers finding her.

“You thought I was dead.” She says it with such surprise, as though it’s never occurred to her before.

“Yes.”

“Oh, Coulson,” she reaches forward and grasps his hand, and despite the fact that he’s nervous about closing the distance between them, he steps towards her — too enticed by the promise of her warm skin, of her breath, of her pulse beating strongly.

He only gets close enough to set a gentle hand on her arm, though — a safe touch as he looks back at her scars.

“They’re not ugly,” he tells her, all sincerity.

“No?”

“No. You could never be…” He doesn’t finish that thought, and his eyes dart up to her face, to see the way she’s smiling at him, before drifting back to her stomach.

They’re less scary now that they’re not covered in her blood, and it’s not exactly conscious when he slides his hand to her belly, just under her bra, so he’s covering the scars with this palm.

She draws in a deep breath, and he can feel her ribs expand under his fingers. It’s comforting to feel it, and he steps closer, shuffling up between her knees as he lets his thumb trace around the perimeter of the scars.

It’s more conscious this time when he slides his left arm around her, able to hold her in the bend of his elbow even without a hand there to support her. He looks up, watches her face closely for any sign that she’s bothered — by the touch, by the reminder of his arm — and sees none.

“See? Breathing.”

She smiles at him as her ribs expand under his hand again, a slow deep breath and then a long pause before she exhales just as slowly. He relishes it — the feel of her lungs expanding under his hand and the stillness between each breath, like Skye breathing is all that really matters.

“I have a pulse, too.”

As though it was an offer, he brings his hand up to her neck, resting his palm against her throat while he presses his index and middle fingers gently to her pulse point. It’s there, strong and steady, and it speeds up when he slides further between her legs. Her breath hitches and she tightens her inner thighs around his legs for a moment.

He squeezes his left arm around her waist, or at least tries to. He’s not used to using it this way, yet, and he can’t hold her as tightly as he’d like to. Still, it’s not a bad feeling, especially not with the way Skye is letting herself be held.

It’s a short move from there to dragging his thumb across her lips, a totally irrational and yet completely necessary move as he remembers the way she looked back then. They’re soft and dry against his skin, and then she parts her lips and he find his thumb brushing against her tongue.

His mouth falls open at the visual — Skye’s tongue touching him — as much as the feel of it, and their eyes meet as everything seems to slow down around him, so he’s hyper aware of every minute facial expression and every tiny move she makes between breaths.

And maybe everything that’s happened up until now has been confusing, but suddenly it’s not at all. There’s no guilt mixed in with his arousal, no shame at how much he wants her.

“Coulson,” she whispers his name, and it’s all he can do to lean in and replace his thumb with his mouth, to press his lips against hers with all of the desperation and relief and longing he’s felt for her. She kisses back just as fiercely, her hands pushing his jacket down his arms with no preamble.

“It’s pinned to my shirt,” he manages to grunt against her mouth before she can push the jacket down his left arm, where he’s got both garments folded together and pinned just below the residual limb. For a second, he worries this will slow things down, put a damper on everything, but Skye just gamely begins by attacking his tie and then shirt buttons, using her fingers at his collar to pull him back into a kiss.

And there’s no real time to worry, not even when his left arm touches her skin to skin — the first such touch he’s had that hasn’t been medical in nature — as his shirt and jacket finally fall to the floor around his feet.

He’s bare underneath, so Skye’s fingers are quickly combing through chest hair, running over skin and muscle while he fights, one-handed, with the five little hooks holding her bra together.

It’s only when he thoughtlessly brings his left arm to her shoulder in his struggle, only when the limb and the scar tissue are accidentally within her line of sight, that Skye fully acknowledges it.

Their lips part, and he’s still panting when she turns and lays her face against his arm, her lips pressing into the skin just below his elbow. And then stays there.

He waits, breathing slowly in the sudden stillness between them until he can’t handle it anymore.

“Skye —”

“I’m not hurting you?”

“No,” he reassures her, which is when he realizes that she’s crying. “Skye,” he sighs her name again.

“You could have died,” she informs him, voice wavering too much, and they never talked about this, either, not really. They picked up after _everything_ and started running again and they never really stopped to talk.

It’s a pattern.

“You could have, too,” he reminds her, and then she kisses him again, rough and nipping too hard at his lower lip, her mouth slightly wet from tears.

He decides not to bother with her bra, instead drops his hand to pry open her slacks and tug down her zipper, while she tears apart his belt. His trousers and boxers are around his knees, and Skye’s hand wrapped around his cock, before he’s even finished with her zip.

She jacks him off slowly, her hand like heaven wrapped around him, and he moans helplessly into the crook of her neck. It’s been so long since he’s been touched like this — so long since he’s even touched himself like this — that the sensation is nearly overwhelming.

“Up,” he manages to grunt against her shoulder, fingers tugging at her waistband.

Skye releases his cock and obeys, slipping off the counter and pushing her jeans and panties down and off. She even tugs off her bra for good measure, so that when she hops back up onto the counter, Coulson only has to lean forward to bury his face between her breasts. And even though she laughs, Skye doesn’t discourage him. Instead, she laces her left hand through his hair to hold him against her while her right hand moves back to his cock, stroking him slowly.

He has just enough of his wits about him to not be a completely passive player in this, to decide to slide his hand between her legs and feel the wetness there. She angles her hips for him, giving him easy access to turn his wrist and push two fingers inside of her, crooked to make her groan and throw her head back against the mirror.

And he’s just decided that he wants to make her come like this when Skye makes a different decision, pulling him forward by his cock. He’s almost forced to move his hand out of the way when she guides him up against her.

“Do we need a condom?” He manages to get the question out, to think just coherently enough to consider consequences (but he’s good at that, at thinking in terms of consequences, though he blocks out any thought of _other_ possible consequences).

“No,” she answers easily, and he nods as she guides him to her entrance, drawing her legs up behind his butt to push him forward.

Everything goes white hot and stills for a moment again — an endless stretch of time between two breaths — before he thrusts, hard, inside of her.

It’s too fast, but it was always going to be too fast, he decides. It’s what they do — find their new normal and take off running.

He grinds against her, almost incapable of thinking about anything other than his own release. But she’s right there with him, bucking her hips against his wildly as she gets close.

They come together, momentary blinding pleasure that’s too fleeting until Skye’s lips close over his again, drawing him into a slower, deeper kiss than they’d managed to share before.

He groans, low and loud against her mouth, as they kiss.

“Take me to bed?” Skye asks quietly, almost shy, and he nods.

He slips out of her when she hitches her thighs up around his waist, but with her help he’s able to stumble them both into the bedroom, collapse onto the bed with her.

They kiss again, slow and deep as Coulson props himself on his left elbow above her, his right hand making an exploration of her body, of the way she breaks out in goosebumps when he brushes under her left breast, the way she can’t help her giggles when he drags his nails across the soft skin under her belly button.

There’s nothing fast, nothing rushed, about the way he presses his fingers inside of her again. She moves with him, one hand clasped tightly at his neck, and holds his gaze as he pushes her over the edge slowly.

Exhausted, they curl around each other and just breathe, a moment of rest before they have to pick up and run again.

 


End file.
